I don't come from a good family.
I was born into a broken home,
and I know I shouldn't love
like the way that I was shown.
My grandpa died in prison
where he paid for awful sins;
and grandma never told me
about her oldest kid.
My auntie always joked
that she was actually my mom,
which made me beg the question
where our bloodline was even from.
I heard every answer they could give;
and not a **** one told the truth.
How is a flower supposed to blossom
when it can't even find its roots?
May 12
May 12, 2026 at 7:37 PM UTC
I am intoxicated
on the warmth of the sunlight as it melts into my skin
I am drunk
on the fragrance of honeysuckle as I grin at its tangled knots along the wrought-iron fences
I am a lush
for the softness of the magnolia as i drink tea made from their petals and sit in their shade
I am addicted
to the star’s offering of light as it glistens on the water
I am humbled
to be created by the same one who created these heavenly vices
Apr 17
Apr 17, 2026 at 1:29 AM UTC
I was destined to be nothing more than my mother’s mistakes.
I was expected to wear the designs of my father’s pride.
And so, I ran away
and spit in the face of every good christian
who has turned me away.
These southern pines embraced my wounds.
Sitting in their softness,
I understand freedom;
I finally feel release.
Apr 2
Apr 2, 2026 at 11:02 AM UTC
It’s been quite a while since I’ve seen the snow.
I have gotten used to the warmth;
but this place still doesn’t feel like home.
As I walk these streets I’ve learned,
I’m not sure if my feet are even my own.
If I only went back once,
to that beans and bread town,
I could still walk those streets
to my first friend’s house.
And I would still hear condemnation
from the preacher man’s mouth.
But the skies here are kinder
and the winds don’t hurt my ears
I could walk these paths in silence,
let myself be softened by the years.
My mother’s anger can’t reach me here
I can’t feel the absence of my father
when I’m lying on my back
in the sun by the water.
Apr 2
Apr 2, 2026 at 11:00 AM UTC
I sit on the waters’ edge, hoping to hear God scream;
to say anything.
I promise that I’m listening.
I am met with the rustling of the magnolia,
the whisper in the breeze,
the river’s waters sing to me
oh… so… rhythmically…
And all else is reduced
to just my menial view.
I see only trees;
and I breathe in
the freshness of the soil
which will hold me tightly
sooner than I know.
So today, I will stay by the waters’ edge
and I’ll know God is screaming
as the breeze becomes gusts
blowing my hair.
Feb 22
Feb 22, 2026 at 12:49 PM UTC
I see the ground below me
and feel the wind flutter around me
the ground doesn't seem as far
as it did not long ago
I heard it'll take less than seven seconds
for my body to touch the soil
freedom for seven seconds
before my body rests in soil
as I let go
I can hear clearly for the first time
the laughing by the creek,
the car horns in the street,
and after seven seconds
as my body lays on soil
I take in all that I see
and in my eighth second
I’m glad I left the tree
Jan 24
Jan 24, 2026 at 4:41 PM UTC
She thinks herself a withered rose,
unnoticed, unloved, untouched.
What I wouldn’t give to gladly
toss her petals to the sea,
to hold her sun-kissed hands,
and remind her
of how often
roses are turned into rosary beads,
kept for generations, prayed over.
What I wouldn’t give
to give her even a hint
of the sunlight she has given me.
A withered rose—no.
She is eternal.
She is the rose I chose to dry,
to turn into rosary beads
I will keep,
and pray over.
Jan 16
Jan 16, 2026 at 5:42 PM UTC
Wind hits my ears like an anxious heartbeat.
The freshwater of rain meets the skin of my cheek,
becoming saline
as it mixes with the salt of my youth.
Beading, streaming, falling away,
as tired shoes carry begrudging feet;
moving me further from yesterday.
The sunlight of tomorrow
sits tucked away safely below the horizon line.
I’m joined only by starlight in silent reverence.
Noticing the absence of the moon
is a grief that I share with the sun.
We share the same burden, too.
Always forcing tomorrows,
Because today always becomes yesterday too soon.
Nov 5, 2025
Nov 5, 2025 at 7:41 PM UTC
The first fruit I ever stole
came from an old man I don’t know the name of.
I know he couldn’t move
from his La-Z-Boy by the front window.
I know how his gravelly voice boomed across the yard
as he scolded me for taking peaches from his tree.
I don’t know why he cared.
I know my sister would smile when I brought them home.
And I know my brother had this habit—
biting only one side
until he reached the pit.
I don’t know what happened to the old man,
but I know the peaches started something bigger.
I know I later became a thief—
but also had this habit
of giving people fruit when they’d come over.
I don’t know if the old man knew my name,
or if he just called me the brat who stole his peaches.
I know they cut down that peach tree
when I was in ninth grade.
And I know
I’ve never had a peach so sweet
as the ones from the old man’s tree.
Aug 19, 2025
Aug 19, 2025 at 6:28 PM UTC
Oh, what a joy it must be
to be a magnolia
planted along the city street,
to be met each and every night
by beautiful passing faces
under the twinkling city light.
Oh, what a blessing it must be
to be a dragonfly,
gliding on delicate wings
over the land, eternally free,
listening as every bird sings.
Oh, what a pleasure it must be
to be a summer cloud,
basking in the sun’s glory,
wearing sunshine like a shroud.
Oh, what a grand thing to be
a tree in a meadow,
holding a swing.
Oh, what a great thing to be
alive in the sun.
Oh, what a perfect thing to be!
Jul 15, 2025
Jul 15, 2025 at 3:34 PM UTC